Face Your Hell
by Crazyfangirl23
Summary: How did both the Doctor and Clara cope with losing each other?


Face Your Hell

He watched in something more extreme than shock, more perilous and disturbing than distraught. It was his soul, screaming inside him silently while his face remained totally blank, expressionless. He had lost so much, and now he had lost her and he couldn't take it. His disbelief was one so deniable he expected her to sit up and joke like she always did, hear that beautiful laugh and observe that dazzling smile. His emotions were bled out, so buried and lost he couldn't make himself do anything. He couldn't even make himself react properly. He was just empty. There was nothing left to feel, just numbness, as he stared at that figure on the ground, so small and yet so huge, so big and important and amazing in the world, and to him. He forced his legs to move, and with something like caution he slowly moved toward her, and knelt silently to the ground beside her. She was so beautiful. Even in death she was pulchritudinous, like an angel, with her flushed cheeks and rose lips, exactly as she would look if she was only sleeping. His deft hands gracefully stroked her hair, something he hadn't done to her for a very long time, when he had been his floppy-haired and flirty self. Leaning over her face, he propped her up, her head lolling back like a doll's. She was so lifeless, which normally she was exactly the opposite. His eyebrows furrowed uncontrollably as he looked upon her body, so dependant now on the centre of gravity that held her, on his arms that she was pressed against that gentle hold. His hands shook, his eyes roamed altogether along her face and his eyes watered. But this time, they spilled. And he cried, something he hadn't done for a long time either. It was desperate tears, dry, broken, crying like the rain. He didn't make sounds but said her name, over and over, like prayer.

'Oh, Clara Oswald.' He whispered, a teardrop hitting her cheek. He loved her name, loved saying it, loved everything...everything about the woman in his arms. He rocked her back and forth tenderly, huddled up in his arms, past caring if people were watching him cry over this girl so helplessly.

'I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Clara. I had a duty of care. I should have looked after you properly.'

Emotion was an understatement. He wasn't emotional at all, in any way. He was far, far worse. Unexplainable. Trembling, he kissed her forehead for a fraction of a second. Carefully scooping her up, he carried her in his arms, her legs dangling and head lolling. Lifting her head up, he turned, walking painfully slow toward the door. He averted the eyes of his watchers, who observed guiltily as he carried her to the nearest door. He closed it behind him, wanting no one to disrupt him. He set her down on the bed, so finally, so graceful. He knelt by her side, holding her fingers that were miraculously still warm but which he knew would run cold. All he could do was sit and stare at her, memorising the curve of her lips, the fixture of her jawline, her shining hair, her eyes which he would have to commit to memory, since they were closed. But he knew already, he could see them clearly when he closed his eyes, having already studied them time and time again. He could picture the exact scripture of her writing, the way her dimple would sometimes crease when she smiled, hear her Blackpool accent ringing in his ears so clearly she might have been talking to him right there and then. She told him not to insult her memory, but that was a promise he couldn't keep. He would always want revenge, on everyone and everything, even the faults of the people he shouldn't technically blame, but still did. Her demise had held him up, made him stronger, comforted him. And without that constant support he didn't know what he could do. But he did know one thing: without her, he was definitely not The Doctor.

Another period of time few by, of which measure he didn't know. Taking a breath, he took one last, heartbreaking look at his Clara, and then let her fingers drop without the support of his. Not turning back, he closed the door behind him, and it wasn't until it was fully shut did he turn again to face it, like he was looking again at her with x-ray vision through the door. He hung his head in despair. And then he circled round, his expression solemn and regretful, empty once again. The flame of anger rose in his chest, bubbling furiously beneath the surface and his expression changed as he told Ashildr his warnings. Once finished, he teleported himself, the dizziness making his head reel even worse than it already was. He apparated into a glass teleporter, coughing at the aftermath it had left him. But there was only an image of her face, her death, circulating in his mind as he drew unsteady on his feet. It was unbearable. Unbelievable and unbearable. And that was the curse of The Doctor.

••••

She saw his eyes flicker closed, and from one second to the next he was unconscious, but as if he were only sleeping. It pained her to think that the next time he opened his eyes he wouldn't know who she was. Her tears dried on her cheeks and a lump stuck in her throat. He told her he would remember her smile, even when she hadn't been able to in her distress. It felt like she had killed him, like she had lost him. It was heartbreaking to watch, but now as he lay there, it felt even worse. Her heart literally was breaking. She had received nothing but shock after shock today, from being extracted from her death to learning that he had spent four and a half billion years in hell just to save her to literally going to the end of the universe and finding out they had to be apart, be ripped from each other because together, they were too dangerous. That was the whole basis of the hybrid: two people so alike each other, ready to die for each other, save each other whatever it took, over and over until they fractured time itself and destroyed everything left of the universe. She knew it was true. She knew she would do anything to save The Doctor, and he would do anything to save her. She closed her eyes, holding onto him for a moment, freezing this moment in time forever and instilling it in her own memory. The worst thing was that he wouldn't even know this happened, along with so many other things. She wanted to reverse everything, wanted to take away the memory loss and put it in herself to spare him the frustration, after all he had been through. She wished she hadn't been so reckless, but didn't. She couldn't describe the pain. All she knew was that it hurt too much. She took his hand, covering it with her own, feeling the warmth of his fingers flow through her skin like an electric charge, telling her what to do on impulse. She wanted to say something, something related to what they had shared in the Cloisters, what she had said to him and what he had said in return. She would carry those words to her grave, back on Earth. Taking another look at him, she stood, turning down the lever and coordinates. She knew where to go, she knew what to do. Clara watched his body, wished she could put him in a chair of some sort, yet he knew he would be safer on the floor. Knowing him, he would roll off it.

'Clara-' Ashildr started, but she interjected fiercely.

'Stop.' She commanded, and the TARDIS flew through the vortex, back in time hundreds of billions of years, no longer on Gallifrey, but in Nevada.

'Keep him there.' She told her, breezing out the TARDIS doors. She easily found a fifties blue waitress dress and still stared at his body on the ground. Had she already mentioned her heart was broken? Probably not often enough. She parked the TARDIS just over the hill, and while she knew it was the wrong side it would be one of the reasons to catch his attention. The Doctor loved nothing more than a mystery. Clara took him to the man at the gas station opposite, telling him to look after him and that Clara had been there. She told him that he might be upset or confused when he woke up, so take it easy. And then she knelt down, and whispered in his ear.

'Run, you clever boy. Always straight ahead of you, aim for the stars.' She smiled sadly at his calm face and then pressed a quick kiss to the side of his forehead.

She managed to find his own TARDIS from London, and hung up her favourite red velvet jacket on the post beside his blackboard, where in her familiar script she wrote 'run you clever boy and be a doctor' as a reminder. She also set the TARDIS to work on a new screwdriver, as she feared his sonic shades would get snapped again or he would misplace them. Such was common for this incarnation of the Doctor. She felt her heart swell in longing, as she spun round the TARDIS, staring at the familiar roundels, the leavers and buttons and time rotors of the console, the telepathic circuits and his many bookcases lining the control room. She would miss it dearly and sorely, and she never would stop missing him, and their adventures and all the ones they could have had. But time did not agree with them, so this was the repercussion. This was the best she could do. Stepping outside and admiring the graffiti artwork upon it, she couldn't help but shed a year at her portrait painted on a square of the TARDIS. No doubt Rigsy had indeed felt guilty, more guilty than he had to, and set to work with this piece. The decoration was so detailed too, so beautiful. She wondered if the Doctor would recognise her once he saw it. She told Ashildr everything she was going to do and then waited in the outer shell of her TARDIS, the American diner. Switching on the familiar and reminiscent swing music from their adventure aboard the Orient Express she tried very hard to focus on the useless piece of paper in front of her. She was worried she would say something out of turn, admit to everything that had happened at one look of his beautiful face. Finally, she heard him come in. Leaning backwards, she gave him a cheery welcome and observed him standing there, confused but nevertheless like an angel carved from marble. The sun created the illusion that his hair sparkled and he wore a worn out jacket, his sonic shades that suited him so well, and a red, sleek guitar that finished off the western cowboy/rock god look. It was like meeting him again for the first time. As he shuffled over awkwardly, his voice calmed her in his low Scottish rumble. The whole sound and sight of him was enough to send her to tears again, but she was strong. She was Clara Oswald. And he was her Doctor.


End file.
